


To Date a Holmes

by wibblywobblytimeywimeystuff



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Awkwardness, Boys Kissing, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Holmes Brothers, Implied Sexual Content, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, Kidnapping, Kissing, M/M, Or as I like to call them "Lecroft", POV Multiple, Post The Great Game, Pre-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-13 05:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3369125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wibblywobblytimeywimeystuff/pseuds/wibblywobblytimeywimeystuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very strange serial kidnapper is plaguing Scotland Yard.  Lestrade desperately needs Sherlock's help, but the Baker Street boys seem to be distracted these days.  The tension between Sherlock and John has become palpable.  Greg can't help but wonder if they are about to plunge their relationship into new territory, and if John can manage to date a Holmes, then maybe he can as well.</p><p>Will the three of them be able to put their preoccupations aside long enough to save any more women from being kidnapped?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Braver Man than Greg Lestrade

It was turning into a hellishly long day.  Greg sighed as he contemplated the paperwork piled on his desk.  The coming weekend had seemed so promising only yesterday when his team had found that kidnapping victim unharmed.  The relief and adrenaline of the success had faded quickly, however when Greg began the paperwork. 

The case had been over too quickly.  It left the documentation looking suspiciously blank.  The young woman had reappeared in her own home with no visible injuries and no memories after being missing for three days.  It was bloody lucky that Greg had sent Anderson to recheck the apartment for missed evidence, or the poor girl would have woken up before anyone had even found her.

Despite the victim’s welfare, the case was beginning to look like a Yard failure.  Nothing the police had done had actually led to her recovery, and they had no leads on her abductor.  Even when they succeeded, they managed to fail somehow.  If the press found out, they were going to look like idiots.

A knock on the door made Greg’s head snap up, and Sally pushed the door open.  “Sorry to bother you, Lestrade, but we’ve just had a report come in.  Another young woman reported missing, a Miss Jacquelyn Lowe.  Same area as the last one.  Could be a coincidence, but…”

“Yeah, I doubt it.  Thank you.  Get Anderson out to the apartment, and set up surveillance this time.  Then get the team to start interviewing the family, friends, co-workers… You know what to do.”

Sally nodded before shutting the door to disseminate Greg’s orders.

Greg reached for his phone, snagging it off the corner of his desk as he got up and headed toward the break room for coffee.  If the cases were related, they were looking at a serial kidnapper.  One on which they had no leads and no suspects.  This was right up Sherlock’s alley.

He jabbed his fingers at the small screen typing out a text to Sherlock.  Then he sent another one to John apologizing.  They were supposed to go down to the pub tonight.  It looked like they were more likely to be working together instead. 

Lestrade poured his coffee and then went to check up on his team.  The office was reminiscent of a kicked ants’ nest.  Officers and sergeants scuttled about.  The clock was ticking for the victim, and everyone clearly felt the pressure, the atmosphere intensified by the fact that this new case could very well be related to the last, failed one.  The group Sally had organized to conduct interviews was already hurrying out the door, and Anderson’s forensics unit looked nearly ready to depart as well.  If Greg was going to join them, he needed to be ready to leave.

He headed back to his office where he pulled on his coat.  He dropped his phone into a pocket and took his coffee with him as he strode out to meet forensics in the hallway.  Sherlock already had the address.  He and John could meet the Yard there.

 

* * *

 

Greg half expected Sherlock and John to be in the flat when he arrived.  Sherlock certainly had no qualms about breaking and entering, and John always seemed to let it slide if it was for a case.  When the landlord opened the door, however the flat was empty.  Forensics set up for their investigation while Greg secured police tape over the door and surveyed the exterior.  The landlord led one member of the team to each door and window to secure surveillance equipment outside.  Greg made a mental note to have more placed inside the flat after forensics finished.

With nothing else to do but wait, Greg looked around again for Sherlock and John.  He pulled his phone out of his coat pocket to check for a reply, but the screen was blank so he dialed Sherlock’s number.  When it went to voicemail, Greg hung up and dialed John instead.  Sherlock might often be too distracted or stroppy to bother answering, but John rarely failed to answer his phone.

Greg’s annoyance at the pair grew when the second call clicked over to voicemail too.  He hung up and traipsed back inside to see what Anderson had found.

“No fingerprints, sir, and no sign of struggle.  Just like the last time.”  Anderson reported promptly.

Nothing.  They had nothing to go on.  If they wanted any hope of solving this, they needed Sherlock, and as he was apparently too busy to answer his phone, Greg would have to tempt him in person. 

 

* * *

 

 After ensuring the security of the flat, Greg hopped into a police cruiser and headed for Baker Street.  Mrs. Hudson answered the door when he knocked and ushered him upstairs before shuffling back into her own flat.  Greg gave the door of 221B a cursory knock before striding inside.

The sight that met Greg’s eyes made him stop in his tracks. 

John was sitting in his armchair staring up at Sherlock who loomed over him with a hand on each arm of the chair.  They might have been arguing, but neither of their expressions looked angry.  Greg saw their heatedly locked gaze for only an instant before the intensity was replaced with surprise as both heads turned to look at him.

John cleared his throat, and Sherlock immediately backed away.  Greg looked between the two, searching for any more signs of what might have been happening a moment before, but both of their expressions were blank and unembarrassed.  Perhaps he had imagined the intensity that had seemed to spark between them.  Even if he hadn’t imagined it, Sherlock was so often melodramatic and ignorant of personal space, that Greg could hardly attribute that look to anything particular.  He tilted his head curiously, but Sherlock spoke before he could ask. 

“Lestrade.  To what do we owe the unexpected pleasure?”

“It wouldn’t be unexpected if either of you had bothered to answer your phone.”  Twin looks of bewilderment met this announcement.  “In any case,” Greg continued, “we have a serial kidnapper.  No leads, no suspects, and it’s odd.  The first girl, Mae Harris, turned up back in her own flat after three days.  No injuries and no memory of the event.”

Sherlock’s eyes glazed over for a moment in thought.  “And the second?  There must be at least two to make it a serial kidnapper.  And why do you suspect they are related if you haven’t yet located the second victim?”

“The circumstances surrounding the two girls’ disappearances are similar.  They both vanished sometime between leaving work one evening and returning the next morning.  Neither flat showed any sign of a struggle, but Harris remembers making it home before she was taken.  The victims themselves are similar as well.  Both young women, twenty-three and twenty-four.  Both work in high profile offices in the Westminster area and live near Hyde Park.  We can’t ignore the similarities.”

After Greg’s explanation, Sherlock sat back into his own armchair and steepled his fingers under his chin, already lost in thought.  John interjected with a question instead.

“She was found in her own home? How could anyone have gotten her back onto a crime scene?”

Lestrade shrugged in acknowledgement of John’s point, but Sherlock it seemed was not concerned by the impossible feat.  “The question is not how.  It’s why,” he said.  And with that, he was on his feet and striding toward the door.  He was pulling on his coat and scarf by the time John and Greg realized he had moved.

“I’ll need to see both flats and talk to the first victim if possible.  Did you do any tests on her blood after you found her?  She must have been drugged in order to either keep her unconscious or make her forget the experience.  You can tell me when we get there.  John and I will follow in a cab.”

John grabbed his coat from the hook before darting after Sherlock down the stairs.  Greg followed behind.

Sherlock’s enthusiasm for the case was obvious.  Greg wondered as he climbed into the police cruiser why, then, he and John hadn’t responded to his earlier calls and texts for help.  They had clearly been busy doing something when he arrived, something he had interrupted.  The question was what?  The vision of Sherlock leaning over John as he sat in the chair flared in Greg’s memory.  The tension between the pair seemed visceral at times, despite all John’s protests about his heterosexuality.

For a moment Greg considered the possibility that the two were already involved with each other, but then he stopped to consider what dating a Holmes would be like, what dating _Sherlock_ would be like, and dismissed the idea.  Terrifying.  That was the only word for it.  Even just to live in the same flat as Sherlock much less date him.  John was a braver man than he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is my very first fanfic, and as such I really do appreciate any constructive criticism or feedback. This has not been Beta'd or Brit-picked. If anyone is interested in doing so, please let me know.
> 
> Happy readings!


	2. An Odd Day

John leaned his head on the window as the cab they were in carried Sherlock and him to the latest crime scene.  Embarrassment gnawed at his insides, and he fought back a groan.  Hopefully the rhythm of a case would put this day back on track.  How had it even gotten so strange to begin with?

John tried to retrace his steps to see where he had gone wrong.  The day had started out normally enough.  He’d worked a half shift at the clinic before coming home for lunch.  Sherlock had been in a mood.  Bored.  Christ, John would be happy if he never saw Sherlock bored again. 

Suggesting that Sherlock make lunch was evidently not an appropriate response to his boredom.  He had declared cooking “dull” promptly.  John had responded with a challenge.  He could hear it now.

“You just don’t want to cook because you’re afraid you can’t.”  And there it was, John’s mistake.

Sherlock had whirled into the kitchen and immediately begun searching for something to make.  John had been relieved and a bit smug at his ability to manipulate Sherlock into cooking for once.  He had trotted off to the shower.

A rather loud popping noise and the fire alarm had interrupted him as he was drying himself off.  Cooking, it turned out really was too dull to hold Sherlock’s attention for long.  The eggs that were going to be their lunch had turned into a rather interesting experiment involving the microwave and John’s mysteriously missing deodorant.  The resultant explosion had set the fire alarm off.  John had settled for beans and toast after that.

But then, exploding eggs were pretty common around Baker Street.  No, his current embarrassment had nothing to do with lunch, and everything to do with the rather interesting position in which Lestrade had discovered them.  John glanced nervously across the seat at Sherlock, but Sherlock seemed to be wrapped up completely in the new case, free from contemplations about the nature of their relationship.  How had they even ended up there? And why, oh why, had Greg chosen that moment to barge in?

Sherlock was already cleaning the mess in the kitchen and airing out the flat by the time John had finished dressing.  He had cringed just the smallest bit when he noticed John was out of the shower.  John had said nothing, just joined Sherlock in the kitchen to help clean and then start a more edible lunch for them.

After their plates were stacked in the sink, Sherlock had looked up rather sheepishly at John and muttered “Sorry.”

That was the moment the day had really become weird. 

The cab stopping pulled John from his thoughts.  Sherlock jumped out and headed inside the building, leaving John to pay.  He followed Sherlock into the flat moments later and went to stand by Lestrade while Sherlock observed.  There was no body for John to examine, and the scene was deferentially silent, so John found his mind drifting back to Sherlock’s earlier odd behavior.

Sherlock never apologized.  It just didn’t happen.  John had been flabbergasted.  Some of his shock must have been visible on his face because Sherlock had immediately become huffy.  “Aren’t you supposed to accept my apology?”

“I don’t even know what you’re apologizing for.”  John had answered honestly.

“Then you’re not nearly as smart as I’ve been giving you credit for.”

“Sherlock,” John had begun pleadingly, but Sherlock cut him off.

“Or perhaps I have done so many reprehensible things today that you cannot decide which most warrants an apology.”

“Sherlock, you know that isn’t what I meant.  If you’re referring to the exploding eggs, then don’t worry about it.  I’ve seen worse messes, today even.  I should have known better than to try to get you to cook.”

“But you’re tired.”

There was another odd sentiment coming from Sherlock, John thought still watching as Sherlock wove his way about the victim's living room.  Not that it was odd that Sherlock had known he was tired.  Sherlock knew everything, but that Sherlock might be concerned enough about John’s comfort to allow himself to be manipulated into cooking was strange.  Of course he had seen through John’s challenge.  How could John have deluded himself even for a moment thinking otherwise?  But if that were the case, then Sherlock had actively made an effort to cook for him.  Not only that, but he had apologized for his failure to follow through. 

John allowed himself a moment to bask in the notion that Sherlock cared about him enough for all that to be true, but then he dismissed the thought.  Whatever Sherlock’s game was, it was certainly not caring for John’s comfort.

“Not like you to miss calls.”  Lestrade’s voice dragged John back to the present momentarily.

“Ah, yeah.  We had an incident.  Exploding eggs in the kitchen.  Fire alarms.  My phone was in my coat.  I’m sure I missed it ringing with all the commotion.”  John explained watching Sherlock rifle through Jacquelyn Lowe’s purse and wallet.  

Greg gave him a sideways glance, and John wondered if he should even try to explain the ridiculous position Greg had caught them in.  John opened his mouth, but Sherlock shushed him before he even began, so John returned to his silent reflection.

“I’m really not that tired.”  John had said.

“Yes, you are.”  Sherlock had been argumentative.

“No, I’m –“

“Yes, you are.”  Sherlock had risen from his chair and moved toward John slowly as he pointed out the evidence.  “You’ve clearly had a terrible day at the clinic.  You saw at least eight patients, mostly flu given the season, but one child clearly vomited on you.  Changing your clothes does not get rid of that smell.  You also gave at least one person stitches; there was blood on one of your shirt cuffs.  You walked up the stairs at least ten seconds slower than you normally do.  You’re sitting slouched in your chair, not your normal military posture, and there are horrible circles under your eyes.  You are tired.  And I helped nothing by blowing things up in the kitchen.”  Sherlock had dramatically finished this speech with one arm on either side of John.

“Amazing.”  John had huffed, and Sherlock’s expression had changed instantly from heated frustration to something that made his eyes sparkle dangerously.  John might have called it nervous excitement if he hadn’t known better.  He had wondered for an instant if Sherlock was going to kiss him.  And then the door had opened, and the moment had vanished, leaving John confused and oddly disappointed.

John knew that Greg was wondering too what to make of that look Sherlock and John had shared.  John cringed inwardly.  He could explain it away to Lestrade as an unlikely byproduct of Sherlock’s eccentricities.  That might even be the truth, but it felt dishonest to John.  Whatever Sherlock might have been thinking, and whatever else John might feel about it, he couldn’t deny the magnetic pull that had possessed him as Sherlock bent over his chair. 

No, an ephemeral attraction to his flatmate was not worth mentioning to Greg.  Sherlock had long since made his feelings on the matter plain.  He was not interested in John.  Any fleeting desire John saw was only wishful thinking.  John’s uncertainty about what he wanted was therefore irrelevant.  It had simply been an odd day.  That was all.  A case would return them to their usual patterns.

Sherlock was mumbling discontentedly as he paced through the Jacquelyn Lowe’s flat.  The answer to this riddle was clearly not plain, even to him.  “John, tell me what you see.”

John really looked for the first time since entering the flat.  What was Sherlock hoping he would confirm?

“Er, well…  It’s tidy… but not overly clean.  So, it doesn’t look like anyone tried to remove fingerprints or blood.  Did forensics find any?”  John answered haltingly.

“No,” Lestrade said.  “Whoever entered here was careful to wear gloves, and we haven’t found any blood or hair.”

“Our kidnapper is prudent, it seems, but the woman was taken from here.  Scuffs on the lock from a clumsy lock-pick suggest a forced entry.  There’s a ring of dust on this table.  Someone knocked over a vase or a lamp, probably during a struggle.  Your team will likely find the broken pieces in the garbage.  Our victim left her coat and purse on the hooks by the door as well.  Clearly she didn’t leave of her own free will.  Unfortunately that tells us nothing about the perpetrator or where our victim might be now.  I’ll need all the case files and everything we know about both victims.  When can I see the other flat?” Sherlock said.

“I have copies of the files for you here.  I’ll try to arrange for you to visit the flat tomorrow.  It’s too late today.” Lestrade handed two folders to Sherlock who promptly began ruffling through them.  John suddenly doubted that Sherlock would sleep tonight.  Perhaps he could at least get dinner into him first.

Sherlock looked up from the file abruptly and scrutinized Greg’s face.  “You need rest, Lestrade, and I need time to think.  Come on, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading and for any feedback! It makes my day!


	3. Examining the Data

Sherlock hailed a cab while he waited for John to catch up to him.  Anderson and his ludicrously incompetent forensics team had missed every piece of evidence in the flat, but even Sherlock had to admit that the tidbits he had found were paltry.  The lack of leads was, for once, not the fault of anyone at the Yard.  He needed to read the case files more closely.  It had been four days since the first victim was abducted.  Highly unlikely there was any evidence left at her flat.  Lestrade should have called him sooner.  Though to be honest, he might not have taken the case earlier.  It was only now interesting enough to capture his attention.

Sherlock’s mind was spinning with ideas.  The lack of evidence or leads made almost any theory conceivable.  _Don’t theorize without all the evidence._   Anything was possible at this point, but there was no point dedicating valuable processing speed to unfounded potentialities.  Nothing more could be done, at least until he read the files.

A cab pulled up to the curb, and he clambered in with John at his heels.  Sherlock gave their address to the cabbie before looking across the seat.  John was looking out the window.  He had been quiet in the flat too, contemplative.  John was thinking about something obviously.  What, though?  John would be concerned for the kidnapping victims, but Sherlock doubted the case was occupying so much of John’s mind just yet.  The earlier incident at Baker Street, perhaps?  Likely.  What precisely John thought or felt about said incident was harder to deduce.  It would have to wait.  He could to return to that particular question when the case dead-ended – as he suspected it would – later that night.  At least he wouldn’t be bored.  For now, the Work called to him.  He opened the first file and began to read, sorting and compiling data where necessary.

Sherlock was so immersed in the case files that their arrival at Baker Street surprised him.  John paid the cabbie before heading inside.  For once, Sherlock trailed one step behind him, reluctant to pull his nose from the folder.

Upstairs, Sherlock started pinning various bits of information to the wall while the clatter of pots and pans resonated from the kitchen.  Dinner would only slow him down, but tea might be nice.

His collage finished, Sherlock sat back into his armchair to finish reading the available data.  A few pages later, he stood to add more tidbits to the wall and returned to a steaming cup of tea on the side table.  John’s doing.  No doubt a plate of food would appear momentarily.

He drank the tea as he read.  As soon as he finished with the folders, he set them aside and flopped onto the couch to think.  There was very little new information with which to work.  The two victims were indeed similar.  Even the idiots at Scotland Yard understood that much.  Lestrade would already be watching for similar disappearances.  Unfortunately, they weren’t likely to notice another abduction until after it happened.

If the first victim could be believed, the abductor took both women from their own homes.  The first reappeared three days later unharmed in the same location.  Sherlock couldn’t be sure that pattern would repeat itself until the second victim was found or returned by the criminals.  Something about that nagged at him, though. 

Why?  Why was the first woman abducted? 

If he could answer that question, they could prevent more kidnappings.  Not for money.  No ransom demands had been made.  Lust didn’t make sense as a motive since she hadn’t been raped or otherwise sexually abused.  She hadn’t been physically hurt either, so simple blood lust could be ruled out.  Vengeance?  Holding a person without hurting them seemed an odd way to exact revenge.  But perhaps… revenge against someone else?

Someone who knows – and cares for – both women angers the abductor.  The abductor then kidnaps the women to cause distress to their mutual acquaintance, but minimizes the distress to the women themselves.

It was an odd motive to be sure, but it also seemed to be the only answer that fit all the facts.  They needed to ascertain who exactly the two victims knew in common.  Sherlock fired off a text to Lestrade telling him to look for the connection.  Then he turned to his mind palace.  If anything in the case files indicated a common acquaintance, Sherlock would find it.

He chased the elusive relation through his mind for a while.  After completely reviewing the case files twice, however, Sherlock admitted defeat.  If there was such a person, he or she was not mentioned in any of the information to which Sherlock currently had access.  Hopefully tomorrow he could speak with the first victim.  She was their best bet for understanding who connected the pair.

Sherlock rolled off the couch and stood up to stretch.  His suit was wrinkled from lying down, and he wondered how long he had been thinking.  It was well past nightfall outside the window, and the coffee table held a plate of untouched, cold pasta.  John again.  The man himself was seated in his armchair, slumped forward, asleep with the case files open on his lap. 

He would regret it if he slept in that position all night.  Perhaps Sherlock should wake him up.  The clock read two in the morning.  Lestrade would hopefully call early tomorrow.  They should really both be in bed anyway.

And yet it was a rare moment in which Sherlock could observe John sleeping.  The greyish light seeping in through the curtain from the moon seemed magnetically attracted to him.  It made his hair look less blonde and more silver, but that suited John.  As uncomfortable as his position must be, John still slept soundly, prepared by a military life to sleep anywhere.  Sherlock watched John breathing deeply for a few long minutes, not really observing, but reveling in his ability to simply look.  The warm creep of affection spread through his chest.

Affection.  Of course.  For John who was his best and only friend.  It couldn’t be avoided.  Moriarty had proven at the pool just how dangerous Sherlock’s friendship with John could be to them both.  A dangerous disadvantage, true, but also a challenge to which John constantly rose.  He reciprocated Sherlock’s affection obviously.  Only true sentiment could allow someone to continue living with someone as intolerable as him.  It might be a cause for concern, but Sherlock would no sooner divest himself of it – or John – than he would his right arm.  No, John was too deeply integrated into Sherlock’s life and psyche to remove. 

Besides, if he was going to feel affection towards anyone, at least John saved his neck as many times as he saved John’s.

John’s introspective mood earlier had little to do with affection, however. 

More and more, Sherlock felt drawn to John, as the moonlight seemed to be tonight.  Attraction – normally less complex than affection.  Attraction was basic biology with no need for the convoluted mess of sentiment.  Attraction to John, on the other hand was the definition of messy.  Mutual affection already existed in their relationship.  Any sort of physical relations might be driven by biology, but they necessarily could not avoid the tangle of feelings.  John would not be able to dissociate the physical and the emotional, and Sherlock could not assimilate them.  John needed romance.  Sherlock didn’t do romance.  Even if he could, John had made his position quite clear: “not gay.”

Still, the attraction Sherlock felt for John was growing, becoming out of control.  Lost in his deductions earlier, he had not even realized he had closed the gap between them until he was on top of John.  John should have been annoyed at this latest invasion of personal space, but instead he had not pulled away at all.  Sherlock had clearly seen the burn of attraction in John’s eyes.  Or perhaps he had simply felt his own attraction and projected it onto John.  His feelings for John made his observations unreliable.  In either case, the pull emanating from John at such close proximity had been unbearable.  Sherlock silently thanked Lestrade for his timely intrusion.  He had been sorely tempted to kiss John, the results of which would no doubt have been catastrophic.

John had been too quiet all day.  Sherlock needed to be more careful.  He had exposed too much of his feelings earlier.  If he made John awkward or uncomfortable, John would leave, and that would be unacceptable.  Sherlock needed John Watson.

John gave an odd, grunting snore and twitched a bit in his sleep.  A smile tugged at one corner of Sherlock’s mouth in spite of himself.  Was waking John up too overtly affectionate?  Maybe.  He considered simply slamming his bedroom door as he left.  It would probably wake John, but waking an army veteran with sudden, loud noises seemed somehow cruel. 

Filled with the strange sort of courage that only comes with the very early morning darkness, Sherlock approached John’s chair and, unable to resist, reached out to run a hand gently through his hair, memorizing the coarse texture.  A soft and platonic shake of John’s shoulder actually roused him though.

“Time for bed, John.”  Sherlock told him.  He didn’t wait for John to reply before padding into his own room and shutting the door.  Sherlock listened to quiet footsteps on the stairs and the click of a shutting door before taking off his suit and climbing into bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you are enjoying it so far! Feedback is appreciated as always!


	4. On the Edge of a Breakthrough

Greg arrived at work before dawn the next day.  Sherlock’s text had claimed there would be a mutual acquaintance of the two victims, and the only way to find such a person was to manually sift through all the available information.  Unfortunately, after two hours of going over the case files and all the interviews that Donovan’s unit had conducted yesterday, the connection remained as elusive as ever.  Greg sighed and ran his hands over his face.  Sherlock rarely made mistakes.  If he said the link existed, then Greg just needed to find it.  He flipped the file back over to start at the beginning again and was interrupted by the shrill ring of his mobile.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Hi, Detective.  This is Mae Harris.  I’m returning your call from yesterday.”  The voice on the phone said.

“Miss Harris, yes.  I’m sorry to bother you.  We’re concerned that your case is related to another kidnapping that we’re dealing with.  We’d like to take another look around your flat, if that’s alright with you.  We’ve brought a consultant in on your case, and he’ll most likely want to speak with you as well.  I understand if you’re uncomfortable, but…”

“Not to worry, Detective.  I’m happy to help your investigation in any way I can, especially if someone else is in danger.  You can come by this morning if that works for you.  How about nine?” She said.

“Nine works.  Thank you.  See you then.”  Lestrade hung up the phone and then texted Sherlock the time and address.  Hopefully the man wouldn’t traumatize the poor woman.

It was barely half past seven.  He needed to make copies of the interviews for Sherlock, and then there might be enough time to read over part of the files again before heading out to the flat.  No doubt it would be another very long day.

 

* * *

 

 Mae Harris’s flat had nearly the same layout as Jacquelyn Lowe’s.  If they weren’t already investigating the two crimes as connected, that alone might have tipped them off.  Sherlock had found evidence that the Yard had missed yesterday, but Greg doubted the same would happen today.  This crime scene was too old.  Almost 48 hours had passed since Harris was found, and it had been almost five days since she was abducted.  Still, Sherlock taking a look around couldn’t hurt.

Greg stood by John and watched Sherlock flutter about the apartment while Miss Harris made tea.  Sherlock glanced away from the flat every few seconds to look at John.  He was clearly looking for some piece of information in John’s face that had nothing to do with the case.  For his part, John waited quietly again.  Like yesterday, his attention seemed consumed with Sherlock.  Well, even more than usual. 

Perhaps Greg shouldn’t have so easily dismissed the desire he had seen between them yesterday.  They weren’t fawning over each other, but Greg couldn’t imagine Sherlock fawning over anyone to be fair.  A bit of awkwardness hovered in the air separating them, instead.  They probably weren’t shagging yet, but their relationship seemed poised on the edge of a precipice whether they knew it or not.

Greg couldn’t know whether they would draw back to their old patterns or take the plunge into the unknown.  Which option would be better? 

If the two refused to push the boundaries of their relationship, nothing might change.  Or the awkwardness of their mutual, but unacknowledged attraction might drive them apart forever.  On the other hand, if they tried and failed to cultivate that attraction it would just as assuredly separate them, and failure seemed likely.  After all who could really tolerate all of Sherlock’s idiosyncrasies?

But then that question didn’t require Sherlock Holmes’s deductive skills to answer.  John could.  John already did.  He lived with Sherlock and not only tolerated, but practically worshipped the man.  If anyone knew how to handle Sherlock, it was John Watson.

Maybe then, they wouldn’t fail.  Maybe it was possible to date a Holmes after all, and if they were going to succeed, then that was clearly the better choice.  Greg hoped they were smart enough to take the chance.  It would be about time. 

In the meantime, he should put another bet into the pool at work.

Mae Harris returned from the kitchen bearing a tray of teacups.  Greg took one gratefully, and John followed his lead.

“What have you got for us, Sherlock?” Greg inquired.

“Nothing new.  The lock has the same marks from an inept lock-pick.  More evidence that our perpetrator is the same, but not particularly telling as to his identity.  Any other evidence is unfortunately gone now.”  Frustration practically oozed from Sherlock’s voice.

Before he could begin eviscerating Anderson and the rest of forensics, Greg cut him off.  “All we have to go on is a possible mutual acquaintance then.  Miss Harris, do you know a Jacquelyn Lowe?”

“No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard that name before.”  She answered.

“Any other hobbies you haven’t told us about?  Places where you might have mutual friends?”  Greg knew he was reaching, but any sort of lead at this point was better than nothing.

The question seemed to have piqued Sherlock’s interest at least.  His eyes never left Harris’s face as she answered, and Greg felt a swell of pride at asking a Sherlock-approved question. 

“I don’t really have a lot of time for hobbies.  I work long hours, but I do have a gym membership.  I’m not really friendly with anyone there though.  I go before work in the mornings, early.  It’s the Westminster Gymnasium near my office.”

“The other girl had a membership card in her wallet.  It’s tenuous, but worth investigation.”  Sherlock said.  “Are you coming with us, Lestrade?”

“I have to stop by the Yard to see if anyone else has found anything.  You two go on and let me know what you find.  Thank you again, Miss Harris.  We’re doing everything we can to catch whoever’s behind this.  Please let us know if you remember anything else.”  Greg held out his hand to her.

She took it and shook.  “Of course, Detective.  Please let me know if I can help in any other way.”

Greg followed Sherlock and John out of the flat and watched them get in a cab headed toward the gym in question.  He climbed into his own car and steered toward New Scotland Yard.  Maybe, just maybe, the team had dug up something new, and they could all catch a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this one is a bit short. I'm going to make up for it in the next one. Thanks for reading, as always!


	5. Home

The Westminster Gymnasium was housed in an old building that had been converted for modern use.  The classical façade belied a posh, modern interior.  Sherlock climbed the front steps and pulled the door open.  A receptionist sat at a circular desk in front of the exercise equipment.  His polo shirt stretched too tightly across his chest and his black hair was gelled fashionably in front of his forehead.  His nametag read “Toby.”  As Sherlock approached the desk, he smelled the distinct aroma of expensive hand cream.  Definitely gay.

Sherlock hitched on his most normal smile and approached the desk.  “Hi, we’re looking to buy gym memberships.  What sorts do you have available?”

“We have three different memberships.”  Toby said opening a brochure and pointing.  “The regular package grants you access to all the equipment.  The upgrade also includes up to two group classes a week, and the premium offers unlimited group classes.  We also offer a couples discount, if you’re interested.”

Sherlock started to point out that they were not, in fact, a couple to save John the trouble, but John’s voice carried over his.

“That would be brilliant.  Do most couples come at the same time?  Only, I’m really more of a morning person, and this one,” John gestured at Sherlock, “prefers lunchtime or evening work outs.”

Wait.  Did John just tell someone they were a couple?  Sherlock’s brain immediately abandoned the case and went into overdrive.  After all his denials, John was suddenly comfortable being mistaken for Sherlock’s boyfriend?  Was it just for the case?  No.  Whether or not they were a couple had no bearing on the case.  Was this a way for John to tell Sherlock that his feelings had changed?  After all “not gay” didn’t necessarily equate to straight.  Was he deliberately trying to tempt Sherlock?  If John suspected Sherlock’s attraction to him, perhaps he felt it necessary to conduct an experiment to suss out the truth.  Sherlock tried to ignore the brief panic that gripped him.  It was what Sherlock would do after all, and John couldn’t find out.  But John was not Sherlock.  His intentions were always good.  Perhaps it was just a coincidence, or perhaps he was reconsidering their relationship.  Sherlock needed time to determine what to do if that was the case.  Besides he was supposed to be focusing on the case.  He attempted – rather unsuccessfully – to stamp down the bloom of hope seeping through him as he dragged his mind back to Toby answering John’s question.

 “Some do and some don’t.”  Toby answered.  “The atmosphere is different in the mornings, so it just depends on what you prefer.”

“What do you mean by the atmosphere is different?”  Sherlock asked, momentarily forgetting to maintain the normal act.  The receptionist shrank minutely under his intense gaze.

“Well, the morning crowd is just quieter, less sociable.”  He hurried to explain.  “You know how it is.  No one really wants to chit-chat at six in the morning.”

“Of course.”  Sherlock resumed his performance smoothly.  “We have friends who come here regularly.  Mae Harris and Jacquelyn Lowe.  Do you know them?”

“Yeah!  I didn’t know they were a couple.  They always come at different times.  Mae is always one of the first customers in the mornings, and Jackie comes a couple times a week at lunchtime.”

Interesting.  Toby clearly knew both women.  He knew Jacquelyn Lowe well enough to refer to her by a nickname even, but he obviously didn’t know either of them on a personal basis.  He had no knowledge of the fact that the two women didn’t know one another, and he seemed oblivious to their disappearance.  They might be regulars at the gym, but Toby didn’t care for either one enough to notice them missing a day or two of exercise.  If he was not even aware of their abductions, it seemed unlikely that punishing him could be the motive for their kidnapper. 

The gym was a dead-end.  Maybe Lestrade had found a new lead in the meantime.  Hopefully.  If not, they were back to where they had started.

“Thank you for your help.”  Sherlock said and turned abruptly to leave.

John caught up a moment later, spluttering and visibly confused.  “Where are we going, Sherlock?  Shouldn’t we take a closer look around the gym?”

Sherlock threw out a hand to hail a cab.  “Harris and Lowe attend the gym at different times.  The only common people they might meet there are employees.  Their names weren’t on the sign-up sheets for group classes or personal trainers that were sitting on the counter, which means the only employee they are both likely to encounter is the receptionist.  He knows them both, but not well enough to be our connection.  What more information do we need?  We’re going to the Yard.  Lestrade asked for a report.”

 

* * *

 

The offices of New Scotland Yard were mostly empty, unusual for mid-afternoon.  Saturday.  What did normal people do on Saturdays?  Sherlock would be just as insufferably bored without a case on a weekend as on a weekday.  Besides, criminals did not keep to convenient schedules.  Still, a few members of the Yard were busy working, Lestrade and Donovan among them.  Both of them looked visibly stressed: tense muscles, clenched jaws, and bags under the eyes.

Lestrade looked hopeful when he saw Sherlock and John walk in the door.  Even Donovan only glared half-heartedly.

“Please tell me you found something at the gym.”  Lestrade sounded close to pleading.

“I take it the team hasn’t come up with any new leads in our absence?”  When Lestrade shook his head, Sherlock continued.  “Of course not.  We met a mutual acquaintance, but he isn’t who we’re looking for.  It doesn’t make any sense.  The women fit the same profile.  They’re being chosen for a reason, but they’re not demonstrably connected in any way.”

“You’ve no theories then?”  The desperation in Greg’s voice was obvious.

“The closest I have to a theory is that our abductor is taking similar women for the sole purpose of simply looking at them for a few days before returning them.  Since probability suggests that is not likely to be the case, I suggest we reexamine the evidence.”

“We have nothing to go on then.”  Donovan said throwing up her hands in surrender.

“We have almost everything we need.  I’m just missing something.  Something important.  Why?  Why are they being taken?”  Sherlock’s frustration grew by the second.  Donovan’s despair was not improving his mood either.

“We should all go home.”  John suddenly interjected.  It seemed John could sense Sherlock’s mounting tension and wanted to stop the oncoming tirade.  “Looking at the same data the same way and hoping to get different answers out of it is insane.  We all need rest and a chance to think about it from a different angle.”

Sherlock most certainly did not need to rest.  He slept four hours last night.  That was more than enough, but John did need sleep.  John’s health and comfort was the first priority.  Besides, he could think just as easily at home as here, better even.  Lestrade and Donovan didn’t object either, so they bade each other goodnight and headed in three different directions for home. 

 

* * *

 

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock sat on one end of the couch, leaning his head over the back and thinking.  No matter how many times he went over the case, no new leads were springing up.  He needed John to say something inspiring.  John was busy ordering Chinese instead.

Sooner than Sherlock anticipated, the food arrived.  John plopped down next to Sherlock on the sofa and arranged one of the take away containers in front of him.

“Sherlock, you need to eat.  You can’t hope to come up with any new ideas if you haven’t eat for two straight days.”

Sherlock took a bite to appease John.  His considerations were slow-moving tonight anyway.  One bite wouldn’t hurt.  It was early still.  He could find the answer tonight. 

“Walk me through it again.”  John said.

“Our kidnapper is clever.  He hasn’t left any clues to his identity or whereabouts, but the case is unique.  The peculiar nature of the crimes tells us something about him.  We could surmise what it tells us if we could understand his motive.”  Sherlock took another bite of his dinner.

“Could he just be a Moriarty type?  Looking to cause chaos for the sake of chaos?”

“The crime is too systematic.”  Another bite of orange chicken disappeared down Sherlock’s throat.

“Maybe it’s supposed to be a threat of some kind.”  John suggested with a yawn.

“Actually… that’s possible.  I hadn’t considered that.”  Sherlock could always rely on John.  With this new theory in play, Sherlock vanished again into his mind palace.  He needed to test the evidence to see if it fit.

Some time later, Sherlock was jolted out of his ruminations by the dull thump of John’s head on his shoulder.  He had drifted off to sleep and slowly slumped over onto Sherlock.

There it was again.  John’s apparent physical comfort with Sherlock.  Was it possible that John really wanted Sherlock too?  Conceivable, but it didn’t matter.  Any attempt at a relationship would fall apart as soon as John realized that Sherlock would not be any less difficult as a lover than he was as a friend.

Sherlock could not, however, bring himself to shake John awake or move away.  Just this once, this one time, he could give in and hold John, pretend that they were everything he wanted them to be.  He could commit it to memory and savor it when he was alone at night, and he would extricate himself before morning.  John never need know.

John had already curled his legs onto the couch, so Sherlock simply twisted, laying his head back against the arm rest and pulling his legs up in front of John’s.  John’s head came to rest on Sherlock’s chest over his heart.  He pulled the throw blanket off the back of the sofa and spread it over both of them.  An arm draped possessively over John as Sherlock lay his head back again to continue thinking.

He tried to think about the case for a while, but his last thoughts before drifting off to sleep focused blearily on how warm and comfortable John’s body felt against his own.  He sleepily nuzzled his nose into John’s hair.  Sherlock felt safe.  Home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun with this one. Johnlock snuggles make me quite happy, and there will be more where that came from soon. :)


	6. Rehearsal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to dammitjimimadoctor for her medical expertise on this chapter!

The first thing John registered upon waking, before he opened his eyes, was the numbness in his right arm.  He started to roll over, but the warm press of another body stopped him.  Happiness trickled through him, and he stretched a bit, luxuriating in the intimacy of waking up with another person.  It had been far too long.

The person – whoever it was – made a perfectly comfortable pillow.  The softness of a silk shirt concealed a smooth chest, which John snuggled into contentedly.  The soft double beat of a heart underneath set a soothing tempo for his breathing.  Just as John started to drift off to sleep again, a stray thought about morning snuggles being worth sleeping on the sofa floated through his mind.

Wait.  Why was he sleeping on the sofa?

John’s eyes popped open so quickly he could almost hear them, and he froze like a rabbit sighted by a hunting dog.

Oh, God.  He was sleeping on _Sherlock_.  No.  He was downright _cuddling_ the man.  They’d had so many late nights recently, he must have drifted off on Sherlock’s shoulder.  Had he noticed?  Or had he already been asleep?  Dear God, please let him have been already asleep.  He must have been, though.  Sherlock would never have allowed John to sleep on him.  He hated even being touched!  John had just been so out of it that he hadn’t noticed Sherlock fall asleep and had then passed out himself.  That’s all.  Besides, Sherlock needn’t know how they had slept.  John would just disentangle himself now, before Sherlock woke up.

He gently eased Sherlock’s arm from around his shoulder and pushed up on the elbow that was trapped beneath him.  Sherlock was lying on his back, blocking John’s escape, so John carefully reached his free, left arm over Sherlock and shifted part of his weight onto it.  Then, he moved his left leg, hoping to put his knee on the edge of the sofa before he shifted again.  His knee missed the cushion completely, however, and John suddenly found himself sprawled over a very startled Sherlock.

“Oof, ouch.  John… what are you doing?”

“Oh… I was just, er, getting up.”  John scrambled off his flatmate with as much dignity as he could muster.  He tried for a casual air, but didn’t quite manage it.  “We must have… you know, fallen asleep on the sofa.”

Sherlock looked toward the curtained window before bolting up and beginning to pace anxiously.

“Damn.  What time is it?”  He glanced at the clock.  “Six already?  I didn’t think I would actually fall asleep.  Now I’ve lost hours of thinking time.  This is your fault.  You just had to make me eat, and then you go and fall asleep on me.  How was I supposed to stay awake after that?”

Sherlock knew.  Fan-bloody-tastic.  How much more awkward could things get? 

But then, if Sherlock had been awake when John fell asleep, he had consciously allowed the cuddling to happen.  Hell, he might have even encouraged it.  John looked over at the sofa.  The throw blanket, normally folded over the back, was strewn haphazardly across it.  He had woken up under it.  Someone must have arranged it over them.  Sherlock.

“How am I supposed to solve this case if I’m falling asleep every single night, and-”  Sherlock continued ranting.

Was he just trying to be considerate of John by not waking him?  That wasn’t really how Sherlock operated.  Was it possible that Sherlock had really wanted to be close to John?  Maybe he just didn’t understand the intimacy that position implied, but John remembered the arm that Sherlock had wrapped around his shoulders.  There was only one logical conclusion.

John watched Sherlock pace.  “We’re running out of time.”  Sherlock’s hands pulled at his hair melodramatically.

Tenderness settled into John’s chest.  All those little considerations the past few days: trying to make dinner, making sure John went to bed, eating last night.  And holding John.  Sherlock wanted this, wanted John, whether or not he was capable of admitting it.

The warmth in John’s chest rendered him temporarily unable to breathe.  He immediately abandoned any doubts.  It had been a hell of a long time since he’d even considered being with a bloke.  Not since uni, but Sherlock wasn’t just anyone.  He was his best friend.  His crazy, ridiculous, utterly bizarre best friend.  The urge to reach out and pull Sherlock into his arms threatened to overwhelm John.  He almost laughed at how ridiculously strong the compulsion was.  He was considering the best way to make Sherlock stop pacing long enough to kiss him when Sherlock’s words caught up with him.

“Stop looking at me like that, John!  This is serious!  Harris was found on the third day, in the morning, which means it’s only a matter of hours at most before Lowe is returned too.”

John clambered to reroute his thought processes onto the case and come up with an appropriate response to Sherlock.  “But there are cameras all over her apartment.  If the kidnapper brings her back, won’t he be caught?  I thought you said he was clever.”

“He is.  He’s almost certainly already aware of the cameras.  He’ll just have to-“  Sherlock stopped walking abruptly and looked up at him with the manic gleam in his eyes that he always got right before a chase.  John’s heart raced into double-time.  “John.  That’s it.  He’s clever.  Systematic, but smart.  He’ll follow the pattern, but not to his own detriment.  If he wants to put the girl somewhere she’ll be found, but avoid the cameras, where would he go?  Not her home.”

“The gym?”  John guessed.

“We’d know already.  The gym opens at five.  The kidnapper would have had to place her there before it opened.  Our friend Toby would have found her by now and called the police.  No.  We need to get to Miss Lowe’s office.  Now.”

John remained in place just long enough to see Sherlock whip out his phone and begin to text – Lestrade probably.  John dashed for the stairs.  He threw on the nearest set of clothes and grabbed his Sig from the top of his dresser.  The game was on.  By the time he made it back down the stairs, Sherlock had already changed and was pulling on his coat.  He gave John a serious look, as if to ask if he was ready.  John nodded, and they hurried out the door without another word.

One very tense cab ride later, John and Sherlock looked up at another old-fashioned building, not far from the gym they had visited the day before.  John followed Sherlock’s gaze to the card reader by the door.  It seemed the place was employees only.

“Please tell me you nicked her ID card from her purse.”  John said.

“There was no ID card in her purse, or I would have.  I should have noticed it was missing, but I’d never seen this building.  I didn’t know she needed one.  Fire escape?”

John nodded, and they turned down an alley.  Sherlock jumped for the ladder and immediately started to climb.  John followed as quickly as possible to avoid being left behind on the street.  On the first landing, Sherlock peered into the window.  His long fingers pried at the window sill, but the window didn’t budge.  It was either locked tight or sealed permanently.  Without hesitating, Sherlock shattered the window pane with his wool-covered elbow.  The old glass gave way easily, but John still cringed at the bruise that he knew would appear there later.

Sherlock turned to him and kneeled down to offer John a leg up, which allowed John to clamber through the window without cutting his hands.  Once inside, John immediately pulled his gun from his lower back and cleared the room.  Only then did he turn to offer Sherlock his hand to pull him though as well. 

Sherlock proceeded efficiently from the office whose window he had broken, into a bland, white hallway.  John followed and began opening doors into equally plain offices.  He was almost convinced they had broken into the building for nothing when Sherlock whispered from down the hall.

“John!  Quickly!  In here.”

John rushed to Sherlock’s side.  He caught sight of a nametag reading “J. Lowe” to the left of the doorframe before peering into the office.  Jacquelyn Lowe lay stretched out on the office floor, clearly unconscious, with her blonde hair fanned out around her head.

“I’ll check on her.  Look down the hall and in the lobby.  We need to make sure we’re alone.”  John whispered.

Sherlock nodded and disappeared around the corner.  Stepping into the room, John dropped to his knees.  He set his gun on the floor beside him and started checking Lowe’s vital signs. 

Breathing – normal.  Pulse – normal.  Pupils – dilating normally. 

He reached out to her forehead to get a rough estimate of her temperature when a sharp crack resonated through his skull stunning him.  Adrenaline pulsed through him.  He reached for his gun, but a foot came down on his arm stopping him.  John’s attacker started to retreat at the sound of approaching footsteps, so John twisted and lunged.  He managed to snag the man around the ankle, and he fell forward.  John caught a brief glimpse of a ski mask before a foot kicked out and connected with his nose.  He recoiled instinctively bringing his hands up to his face.  Blood spilled through his fingers.

Shit.  Hopefully his nose wasn’t broken.

Sherlock reached the open doorway after the masked man had scrabbled up and started down the hallway.  John was sure Sherlock could still catch him, though.

Sherlock’s head turned as he passed the doorway, and – to John’s utter surprise – he stopped. 

Squatting down in front of John, Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder, his face breaking with concern.

“John, are you all right?”

“Yeah, just-“  John’s head throbbed, and he reached a hand to the back of his skull.  It came away bloody.  “Shit.  I may need stitches.”

Sirens greeted John’s declaration.  Scotland Yard had impeccable timing, as always.

“You’d almost think they want us do their job for them.”  John quipped, but the worry didn’t leave Sherlock’s face.  He seemed to waffle for a moment before he started to speak.

“John, I-“  He was cut off by the arrival of Lestrade.

“Jesus, what the hell happened here?”  Greg demanded.

Sherlock’s face instantly fell blank, and he rose gracefully to face Lestrade.  “The kidnapper got away, obviously.  Our victim will need to be taken to the hospital.  John needs medical attention.  I’ll explain further after I’ve escorted him to the A&E.”

Without another word, Sherlock helped John to his feet and ushered him out through the front door.  While waiting for a cab, he pulled his scarf from around his neck and pressed it to the back of John’s still bleeding head.  His nose, at least, had mercifully stopped bleeding.  Not likely to be broken then.

The cabbie seemed quite annoyed to have a bleeding passenger, but they managed to make it to the A&E all the same.  The waiting room was mostly empty, and a triage nurse steered John into the back immediately with Sherlock practically clinging to his arm.

A balding doctor arrived relatively quickly to look at John’s head and introduced himself as Dr. Hardy.  “I’m going to have to stitch it closed, I’m afraid.”

“You need to check for concussion.  Blunt force trauma like this is responsible for over 90 percent of all concussions.”  Sherlock interrupted.

The doctor said, “I know.”

John just sighed.  “Sherlock, I do not have a concussion.  I just need stitches to stop the bleeding.”

“I’m afraid he’s right, Mr. Watson.  We will need to check for concussion.”  Hardy replied, already suturing John’s wound.

“Doctor.  It’s Dr. Watson, and fine, but can we keep it quick?”  John said.

“John, he needs to be thorough.  Concussions can cause long-term damage – even death – if not treated properly.”  Sherlock hovered nervously by John’s side.

In the end John was subjected to a complete – though he had to admit standard – neurological evaluation.  Sherlock annoyed Dr. Hardy so much in the process that the hospital staff banished him to the waiting room.

“Well, you were right, Dr. Watson.  No concussion, but you do need to get some rest.  You’ve lost quite a bit of blood, and you don’t want to put stress on the stitches.  I’ll get your discharge papers ready.  You can wait out front.”  Hardy informed John.

“Thank you, and sorry about Sherlock.”

“Not to worry.  Over-protective boyfriends are nothing I can’t handle.”

John’s cheeks tinged pink at that, but he didn’t contradict the statement.  If he had been correct this morning, then Sherlock was likely to be his boyfriend soon anyway.

He smiled at the thought as he made his way to the waiting room where he found Sherlock talking to Lestrade.  Sherlock had just finished explaining the morning’s events to the DI when John walked up.

“It just doesn’t make sense.  There’s no reason to be doing this.”  Greg was talking about the kidnapper.

“John speculated last night that it might be a threat of some kind.”  Sherlock replied.

“It’s a bloody useless threat if we can’t tell what they’re threatening.”  Greg looked between Sherlock and John, clearly hoping for answers.

“Maybe we aren’t the ones at whom the threat is directed.  Maybe someone else understands it.”  Sherlock said.

“Who?  No mutual acquaintances.  No connections.  No one has come forward.”  Greg sighed.

“It is odd.”  John said.  “It’s like they’re putting on a show, but there’s no audience.”

Sherlock said “oh!” suddenly and went very, very still.  His eyes shifted back and forth without blinking as though he were reading words off some imaginary screen.  John knew that look.  Sherlock was cross referencing some data with a new idea.

“As a musician or an actor – anyone who puts on a show – when would you perform without an audience?”  Blank looks from John and Greg met Sherlock’s question.  “When you’re _not performing_.  These kidnappings, they aren’t the main event.  They’re just _rehearsal_.  Our kidnapper has just been practicing for his real target.”

“I don’t understand.”  Lestrade said.

“If you wanted to be absolutely sure you could get away with a serious crime, how would you test yourself?”  More blank looks.  “Commit a similar, but less egregious crime.  That way, if you are caught, the punishment is less severe.  Rape, assault, extortion, murder; all these regularly accompany the charge of kidnapping.  That’s what made our kidnapper unique.  He was _only_ kidnapping, but he’s gotten away with it twice.  He knows he can do it and still walk free.  His real target will be bigger.  I would guess he has a celebrity of some kind in mind or a political figure.”

“Bloody hell.  We’re going to need backup if we want to prevent a high profile kidnapping.”  Greg said.

“Yes, you’re going to have to call my brother.”  Sherlock responded.

“Why do I have to do it?”  Lestrade asked.

“Because my brother hates me and isn’t likely to do anything I ask?  Because I hate him and just don’t want to?  Because it is your job and you’re being paid to do it?  But mostly because I need to take John home so he can rest."

Greg acquiesced and turned to leave.  That was clearly the end of the conversation, so John went to sign his discharge papers.  Truthfully, he was tired and home sounded nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who may have been wondering when Mycroft was going to appear, the answer is soon. :)
> 
> Thanks again for reading! I absolutely love any and all feedback!


	7. Intel and Resources

One might imagine that Sundays would be a day of respite, even for the highest level bureaucratic officials.  Unfortunately for Mycroft Holmes kings, terrorists, and wars did not stop for weekends.  It was barely noon, and he had already been forced to suffer through two conference calls and a meeting with the bloody prime minister.  Luckily, it appeared the rest of his work could be completed from home.  Perhaps he would just stop at that nice new French bistro down the street for lunch.

He started gathering up the paperwork that still needed his attention when his phone rang.  A quick glance at the screen told him it was Detective Inspector Lestrade.  He grimaced.  Lestrade only called when Sherlock was in trouble.

And bailing Sherlock out was even more tedious than dealing with politicians.  Just lovely.

A sigh escaped Mycroft’s lips before he pressed the answer button.  “Inspector Lestrade.  How delightful to hear from you.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Holmes, especially on a Sunday, but we have reason to suspect that someone is planning a high-level kidnapping.  The Yard doesn’t have the intel or the resources to properly cover the range of potential victims.”  Lestrade said.

Mycroft barely suppressed another sigh.  He wished Lestrade would stop calling him “Mr. Holmes.”  They’d known each other for years and worked together quite well.  There was no call for such formalities.  Why did the DI never call with good news?  _Because we are not friends, and he does not like me._  Mycroft reminded himself.  The thought never failed to dishearten him.  Ridiculous.  Why should he care what some silly gendarme thought of him?

At least Sherlock wasn’t causing problems again.

“I see.  I take it my brother has forewarned you about this imminent event?”  He asked.

 “Yeah.  I can bring the case files over, if you want, though you’re probably not at your office.  Umm, I suppose I can meet you somewhere.  Er, your place or somewhere nearby maybe?”  Lestrade said awkwardly.

“That won’t be a problem, Gregory.  I happen to be at my office today, as it so happens.  Can you come by now or would later be more convenient?”

“I can leave now.  I’ll get over there as soon as I can.”

“I shall await your arrival presently.”

The line clicked off, and Mycroft sat at his desk nervously for a few seconds.  Then he rose and walked to the center of the room.  Spinning slowly, he surveyed the rows of neatly organized books and papers accumulated on the various bookshelves.  He tried to tell himself that he was only double checking for exposed classified documents that needed to be removed before anyone else entered, but it was a feeble lie.  Mycroft was far too careful to leave such documents unprotected.  In truth, Mycroft was trying to evaluate what Gregory might make of his work space.  Not that it mattered.  Lestrade had been here before.  This was hardly a first impression, and Gregory’s thoughts about his office were of little consequence anyway. 

Mycroft sat resolutely and opened a report on new Canadian gun regulations.  He read the first page and only realized at the bottom that he had yet to take in a single word of it.  A second attempt met the same failure.  After his third attempt, Mycroft was ready to throw the report at the wall. 

He had no business becoming so discombobulated at the prospect of Lestrade’s impending arrival.

He opted to calmly place the report back on his desk instead of throwing it, and then headed to the restroom.  The problem was, of course, that he _was_ flustered by the prospect of seeing the detective.  How had this little infatuation gotten so out of control?  He needed to compose himself before Gregory arrived.  It would not do to convey interest in him unintentionally.

Mycroft washed his hands in the bathroom and splashed a bit of water on his face.  His reflection stared back at him from the mirror.  He prodded at the wrinkles around his eyes and futilely tried to fix his hair.  No style existed to make him look less bald and ginger, however.  He turned to the side and examined his profile.  Sucking in his stomach did not making him look less middle-aged and pouchy.

He allowed his breath to huff out dramatically.  His appearance could not be improved.  In any case, he would not concede that it even mattered how he looked in front of Lestrade.

His office was still empty when he returned, so he sat back at his desk and pretended to read that report.  He could at least appear relaxed.

Anthea buzzed Gregory in a few minutes later.

“Good afternoon.  Do please sit down, Gregory.”  Mycroft said closing the report folder.

“Hi.  Yeah, thanks.  I’ve got the case files here.  You can take a look.”  Mycroft picked the files up and began to peruse them while Lestrade continued.  “Sherlock thinks the kidnapper has been practicing with these women, but that his real target is someone higher up, a politician or celebrity.  There are too many of those in London for us to cover, but we can narrow the field to those that live or work in the Westminster and Hyde Park areas.  That’s where you come in.  Your people presumably know who we should be monitoring.”

Mycroft pulled out his phone and tapped out a text to Anthea.  She would procure a list of the most likely targets for him.

“We can have a list within the hour.  I can also have personnel prepared to assist your force tonight.  The second victim vanished the same day the first reappeared, so tonight may be critical.”  Mycroft said.

“I’ve already called some people in.  Once I see the list, I can bring in more if necessary.  They’ll be on-scene to prevent anything before it happens.  We’ll need to stay in touch to make sure our forces are coordinated.”  Lestrade replied.

“I agree.”

“It might be easiest if we’re both actually nearby.  We could always get dinner while we wait?”  Mycroft thought he heard a hopeful note in Gregory’s voice.  Was he asking Mycroft on a date?  No.  What a preposterous notion.  Gregory Lestrade had no interest in a man like Mycroft Holmes.

This case wasn’t really important enough for Mycroft to become so personally involved in normally, but perhaps a bit of socialization would do him good.  And it wasn’t a date, so there was really nothing to worry about.  What could possibly happen?

“Dinner sounds lovely.”

“Okay, then.  I’ll text you later.”  Greg turned to leave, and Mycroft found himself alone again.  Alone and suddenly ludicrously nervous about the evening ahead.


	8. A Glitch

Sherlock’s brain had abandoned him the instant he realized John was bleeding.  He had spent the rest of the morning with John’s name playing on repeat in his head.  A glitch – infinite recursion.  The volume of the broken audio track seemed to be inversely proportional to his proximity to John.  As long as he stayed by John’s side, it remained a muffled background noise, but the damn nurses had kicked him out of the room.  In the waiting room, his mind had practically been screaming.

Still, he had answered Lestrade’s questions with relative patience.  It had only become possible to really think again once John joined them.

Now that they were walking up the stairs at Baker Street, the litany had dulled to a bare buzz.  Annoying, but bearable.  Sherlock’s panic was subsiding as well, replaced by an anxious desire to do something useful.  That anxiety immediately doubled when he opened the door to 221B and saw it.  The sofa.

Oh, hell.  John hadn’t said much this morning about the manner in which they had woken up.  However, Sherlock hadn’t really given him a chance to either.  John was obviously thinking about it when Sherlock had shifted the topic of conversation onto the case.  If Sherlock was lucky, John would simply let it go and never mention it.  Unlikely.  John had a fairly high tolerance for never discussing feelings of any kind, but Sherlock doubted he would dismiss this so easily.  Sherlock had inadvertently shown his hand, and John would care enough to want to understand what that meant.  Of all the nights to be unable to control the impulse to sleep!  Maybe he could avoid this conversation by keeping John distracted.  Forever.

At the very least, he could resolve to lead by example and not bring it up himself.  His first priority was John’s health and well-being, anyway.

“John, sit down.  What do you need?”

“Sherlock, I’m fine.  I’m just going to make some tea and read the paper.”  John crossed the flat, going to turn on the kettle.

Sherlock took three quick strides and outpaced John.  He cut him off before he got to the kitchen.  “No.  The doctor told you to rest.  Go sit down.  I’ll bring you the paper and some tea.”

John raised an eyebrow, a sign of annoyance, but the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smirk as well.  Happily annoyed?  That didn’t even make sense.  He sighed and looked down, pinching the bridge of his nose, but he was still smiling.  “Go on, then.”

Appeased, Sherlock turned and started the kettle.  He was putting the teabags into cups when he felt a hand on his shoulder.  He turned his head to look at it, while John stretched over him with his other hand to pull the sugar out of the upper cabinet.

“What are you doing?”  Sherlock asked.

“Helping.”  John placed the sugar on the countertop and smiled.

“You’re supposed to be resting.  Is that really such a difficult concept for you?”

“Yep.  I’m an idiot, remember?”  Why was John grinning like that?

Exasperated, Sherlock frogmarched John to his chair and forced him to sit.  He returned to the kitchen to finish the tea, stirring sugar into his own.  John’s fingers lingered against Sherlock’s as he accepted the teacup and newspaper, and Sherlock could feel his eyes widen in response.  Distance.  He needed distance.  He turned hastily and retreated to the sofa.

Sitting on the same damn sofa from this morning did nothing to slow his heartrate, however, and the chorus of _John John John John_ in his head surged with the space between them.  His bloody brain needed a bloody reboot.

He picked up a book on 19th century poisons from the coffee table and pretended to read nonchalantly.  John’s eyes stared at him from across the room.  He hadn't even opened the paper.  Sherlock forced himself not to look up and meet that gaze, but he still saw John rise and start to cross the room with his peripheral vision.  Panic flooded him.

John sat down, not on the opposite end of the couch, but in the middle next to Sherlock.  They weren't quite touching, but Sherlock could still feel the proximity of John’s leg near his own.  John leaned back into the cushions as he opened his paper, just brushing his shoulder against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock bolted off the couch, crossed the room, and perched himself precariously on the edge of his chair.

“You all right there, mate?”  John asked.

“No.  What?  Yes?  Yes.  I meant yes.  I’m fine.  Definitely fine.”  Sherlock refused to meet his eyes.

John giggled.  Seriously, why was he grinning like that?

He discarded the newspaper before standing.  He approached Sherlock calmly, but the ridiculous smirk never left his face.  After two paces, Sherlock looked up, and their eyes finally met.  John’s were filled with amusement that didn’t quite conceal layers of hope, nervousness, and determination underneath.  Sherlock felt certain his were filled with terror.

He nearly fled again, but John closed the distance too quickly.  Sherlock sank back into the cushions, as John leaned over him.  John braced his right hand on the arm of the chair, but his left closed around Sherlock’s wrist. 

Sherlock’s brain flat-lined.  White nothingness rushed in to fill the sudden vacancy of thought before he started to come back online.  What was happening?  He needed to take inventory of the situation before he drew any conclusions.

“What are you doing, John?"

“Taking your pulse.”  John said.

“What?”

“Taking your pulse.  Didn’t you hear me?”

“Yes, I heard, but… Why?”  Sherlock demanded, frantic.

“Your pupils are dilated.  Your breathing is faster than normal.  And your pulse is – hang on-“  John looked down at his watch for a few seconds.  “Yep, elevated.  What might we deduce from that?”

“John, I-  That is, whatever you’re thinking-  It’s not really the same as-  John?”

John dropped Sherlock’s wrist and retreated to his own armchair in which he sat looking completely at ease.

“It’s okay, Sherlock.  I figured it out this morning.  I suppose I really should have seen it coming.  I mean, everyone else did.”  He said.

“You’re not… upset?”

John face softened with a tender smile.  “No.  No, of course not.  I’ve spent all day wondering when I was going to get to kiss you, actually.  I would have just now, except that you’re acting so bloody uncomfortable.”

Then Sherlock had been correct in thinking that John had deduced his feelings.  But John also reciprocated those feelings.  Hope crashed into him before he could even attempt to control it.  It did not matter what John felt.  It couldn’t matter, because Sherlock would never allow himself to hurt John due to a simple attraction.  Mutual or not.

“John, no.”

It was John’s turn to say “what?”

“The answer is no.  We can’t-  I can’t do this.  I don’t do relationships John.  I’m not capable of providing the sort of affection that a normal person needs.  I won’t be what you’re expecting.”

John leaned forward in his chair.  “Sherlock, what do you think I’m expecting?  I know you.  You’re a complete dickhead pretty much all of the time.  I’m not expecting that to change.  In fact, as crazy as it makes me sound, I would be a bit disconcerted if it did change.” 

“But, John, I can’t put anyone first.  The Work always comes first.”

“Like this morning, Sherlock?  You always put the work first, and I always run after you like a shadow.”  John stood and moved to stand in front of the fireplace.

“You’re not like a shadow at all.”  John looked over at him.  “You are an integral part of the Work, John…”  He hesitated briefly before standing and plowing on.  “You are also an integral part of my life.  You are much more important than a shadow.”

“And you think you aren’t affectionate.”  John said.

Sherlock paused.  That had been a rather tellingly affectionate statement.  He had always thought he was incapable of integrating affection and attraction, but perhaps he was mistaken.  Perhaps he had simply felt true affection for so few people in his life that he had never experienced the two in tandem.  He already felt both for John.  So why couldn’t he indulge both? 

John already accommodated his eccentricities as a friend and flatmate.  Maybe he could also tolerate Sherlock as more.  If he could understand Sherlock’s – admittedly odd – expressions of affection, then it could certainly work.  What was holding him back?  Did he trust John?  Yes.  That was settled then.

Sherlock approached John who looked more nervous than anything else now.  He wrapped an arm around John’s waist and pressed their lips together without hesitation.  After a moment, he felt John release a sigh.  It seemed he had been holding his breath.

Sherlock drew back to allow him breathing room, but John apparently had no intention of letting him go yet.  John’s hands on the back of his neck drew him back down, and the kiss continued.  Sherlock eyed the bedroom door.  The case was at a standstill until they received more information from Mycroft or Lestrade.  The Work could wait.  Just this once.


	9. Ant Colonies and Atomic Bombs

Greg stood outside Mycroft’s office building in shock.  What, in God’s name, had he just done?  Asking out Mycroft Holmes was like volunteering to wrestle an eight-hundred pound grizzly bear because it just happened to be wearing a tiara.  That is, if said bear also ran the British government.  It just made no sense. 

When Sherlock found out about this – which he inevitably would – he was going to call Greg an idiot, and Greg was going to bloody well deserve it this time.

Not that Mycroft wasn’t attractive.  And he had agreed to dinner.  Not that that was saying much.  Knowing the Holmesian sense of social cues, Mycroft likely didn’t even realize Greg had meant this to be a date.  Not that it was a particularly conventional date though.  Greg seriously wondered when he had come to consider a stakeout for a kidnapping a good date activity.  Jesus Christ, he had been spending way too much time with John and Sherlock.

This whole bloody debacle was their fault.  If tweedledum and tweedle-smartass could just keep their goddamn sexual tension out of Greg’s crime scenes…

No.  This was stupid.  Greg was letting the whole Sherlock-John thing (which he wasn’t even sure was really happening) mess with his head.  Yes, he had asked out Mycroft Holmes on some truly bizarre whim, but there was no indication that Mycroft was aware that the dinner was a date.  That meant that it didn’t have to actually _be_ a date.  They were just going on a stakeout.  No big deal.  Nothing to be nervous about.  Greg was just having dinner with an acquaintance.

An acquaintance who happened to somehow mysteriously control most of the Western World.  _Fuck._

 

* * *

 

At seven o’clock, Greg found himself following a pretty young woman through a very posh Italian restaurant to a relatively private booth in the back.  Mycroft was already seated facing the front of the building.  Only one other table was visible from there, and it was occupied – rather suspiciously – by three men in non-descript black suits.  Well, this was going to be an interesting evening.

“Mr. Holmes, nice to see you again.”  Greg held out his hand as Mycroft stood to shake it.

“Mycroft, please.  It’s a pleasure, as always.”  Mycroft said sliding gracefully back onto his seat.  Damn that signature Holmes grace.  It left Greg feeling like a particularly uncultured chimpanzee.

“Uh, in that case, it’s Greg.”  Greg sat and pulled his menu towards him.  “I got the info you sent over earlier.  Only five likely victims.  That’s a reasonable number for our teams to look after for tonight.”

“Yes.  Of course there will be problems with keeping that many staff members on high alert if we don’t gain a lead on our kidnapper soon.  Ideally, he will show himself tonight.  If he is captured, we will no longer need to concern ourselves with this mess.”  Mycroft was already perusing his own menu.

A cheerful waitress appeared and took their drink orders.  To Greg’s great surprise, Mycroft ordered a bottle of wine.

“I hope you don’t mind.  I have no intention of becoming intoxicated, certainly not while peoples’ safety is at stake, but I have been deprived of my customary relaxing Sunday evening, and I have few opportunities these days to indulge in good wine.”  Mycroft explained.

“No problem.  I’m sorry I’m depriving you of your day off.”

“Not at all.  Quite the contrary, actually.  I fear you are the one truly being deprived.  I was going to have to work tonight regardless.  Paperwork is never-ending.  This is much more pleasant.”  Mycroft said.

“Yeah, no worries.  I rarely get the whole weekend off either.  That isn’t really how police-work goes.”  Greg said.

“I know exactly what you mean.  Troubles seldom confine themselves to a regular 40 hour work-week.”

The conversation continued surprisingly easily and amicably as Greg and Mycroft ordered and ate.  The shared hellishness of their work schedules gave them both plenty of fodder for complaints and mutual sympathy.  The talk remained strictly professional, however.  Neither man relaxed until Mycroft’s phone rang. 

“All five women are safe in their homes.  Teams will continue to monitor until morning.  It appears our kidnapper decided not to make a move tonight after all.”  Mycroft told Greg.

Greg sighed and leaned back in his seat.  He hadn’t been aware of how tense he had been.  Mycroft reached out and poured him a second glass of wine before pouring himself another as well.

“Maybe Sherlock scared whoever it is off this morning.”  Greg said.

“It’s possible.”  Mycroft said taking a sip of his wine.  “Being on the receiving end of Sherlock’s rather wrathful brand of enthusiasm is quite frightening.”

Greg laughed.  “You’re not kidding.  Has he ever told you about the time he changed all the Yard’s ringtones to ‘Dumb All Over’ because I refused to ask him for help on a case?”

“Oh that’s nothing.”  Mycroft countered.  “One particularly rainy day, he broke into my office while I was in a meeting for the sole purpose of replacing my umbrella with a rainbow, zebra-print one.  Suffice it to say, I got very wet leaving the building.”

Greg giggled again.  “Once, he got so annoyed with Anderson that he snuck into the Yard at night and filled his desk with an ant colony.  It took us weeks to get rid of them all.  We had to hire exterminators and everything.  No idea how he got them in there.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to laugh; he had no great love of the forensics expert either.  “Yes, he can be quite industrious when he chooses to be.  When he was seven, he told the nanny that he was building an atomic bomb in the basement.  I thought nothing of it, of course, until I actually saw the contraption.  He had basically succeeded.  He only needed the uranium to make it work.  I still have not managed to find out from where he procured the schematics in a time before the internet.”

“Oh my God.  That makes the time he blew up all the office lightbulbs in the office microwave seem tame.”  They both laughed again before Greg continued.  “I think the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen him do was that time he got picked up as a prostitute by one of the sergeants under Gregson.  He asserted that he was undercover, but he was dressed as a woman – and not a very convincing one.”  Greg laughed for a few more seconds before sobering.  “Then again, I think he was high when that happened.”

Mycroft stopped laughing.  In the instant after his face fell from amusement and before it became carefully constructed and blank, Greg saw his eyebrows furrow.  There was sadness there.  Pain at some long-buried memories of his little brother.  Greg knew from experience that Sherlock was not an easy person to love.  He was an impossible person to protect.

“Yes well, his work with the Yard seems to keep him clean.”  Was Mycroft trying to thank Greg?

“True, though John has been helpful as well.”  Greg said.

“So he has.”

After that the conversation turned back to the trials of maintaining peace and sanity in London (for Greg) or the world (for Mycroft).  Greg was pleasantly warm from the wine and laughing when he glanced at his watch.  He had no desire to leave, but he also needed to be up early tomorrow.  Greg tried to think of the best way to say goodnight, but Mycroft saved him the trouble.

“Don’t worry, Greg.  It is late, and I won’t be offended in the least if you go home now.  Truthfully, I should go as well, though this has been a most pleasant evening.”

“Right.”  Greg stood, unsure what to do now.  He still hadn’t decided whether or not this was a date for certain.  If it was, it had been a damn good one.  Before he decided, Mycroft once again took control of the situation.  He held his hand out to Greg who shook it, and the pair left.

Greg watched Mycroft get into a sleek, black car.  His three black-suited security officers slid into the car behind him, and both cars disappeared around the corner.  Greg hailed a cab.

He couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed, but also wasn’t entirely sure why.  A handshake was a perfectly acceptable end to a business interaction, and he had spent all afternoon convincing himself that a business interaction was all he wanted the evening to be.  Still, it had been nice.  He wondered briefly if he had been played.  After all, Mycroft was bound to be at least as good an actor as Sherlock.  Perhaps all the comraderie was fake.

By the time Greg walked into his flat, he'd decided that he didn’t care.  He was going to ask out Mycroft again, and if Mycroft had faked it all, he would just have to come clean then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have gotten carried away with the sarcasm at the beginning of this. I have no excuse, except dammitjimimadoctor made me do it.
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed it! :) Any comments and feedback appreciated.


	10. The Right Piece of Cake

The Prime Minister of Croatia droned on about the importance of establishing an annual joint military exercise with the United Kingdom, while Mycroft made a stoic attempt to appear attentive.  Nothing that happened in this meeting stood the remotest chance of affecting the policies of either nation, and Mycroft had more interesting things to think about anyway.

Last night was… _interesting_.

He had fully expected to spend most of the evening working.  Most curiously, however, his job had not called upon him.  Mycroft could not remember the last time he spent an evening both out of the house and not working.  Running the United Kingdom was, after all, an oppressively busy job, even in the best of times.  Compound that with his kid brother’s uncanny ability to get himself into trouble, and Mycroft rarely saw peace.  The few stolen moments he did snatch were customarily enjoyed in solitude.

Generally, he enjoyed the seclusion.  People were tedious, exhausting.  He had so little in common and with so few of them.  Who among them could truly comprehend the responsibility of his work, the reason he spent so many hours at the office?  A smattering, at most.  Of course, nearly everyone presumed their work to be so important, but truthfully, only a precious handful really held lives in their hands.

Of that scant handful, even fewer could tolerate a Holmes for more than a sentence or two.  The problem lay not in the intelligence gap itself, but in the understanding of it.  To be able to relate to someone requires a modicum of commonality.  The peculiarity of both of the Holmes brothers made establishing such commonality nearly impossible.

And yet…

Sherlock had certainly succeeded in the last few years.  Perhaps he had not established a romantic partnership, but his relationship with John was more than that of mere colleagues.  He treated Greg as more than a simple business transaction too, and Mrs. Hudson was no more Sherlock’s landlord than their mother had been.  Sherlock had friends.

Mycroft smiled to himself at the thought.  Had it only been a few years since Mycroft believed Sherlock hopelessly lost?

Mycroft certainly didn’t need friends the way Sherlock had.  Sherlock had been reckless – wild and lawless.  Mycroft’s life lay firmly in his control.  Friends were a responsibility for which he had no time and even less inclination.

And yet…

Sherlock’s friends had made him better.  He not only solved more crimes, his behavior had improved in nearly every conceivable way.  He was still insufferable, of course, but they cared for him anyway.  That concept was not totally objectionable to Mycroft.  That someone might care for him in spite of all his reprehensible doings seemed impossible, but perhaps if Sherlock could succeed, then the Holmes brothers were not a lost cause after all.

The other members of the conference stood up and began making their way to the door.  The meeting was over, apparently.  Mycroft could not even surmise what the resolution might have been.  He would ask Anthea.  She was in attendance with him, and it was not the first time he had spent an uninteresting meeting thinking about more important issues.  She would assume he had been lost in contemplation about nuclear arms treaties and terrorist cells, and he would not rob her of that impression.

He got up to follow everyone out, taking a moment to shake the Prime Minister of Croatia’s hand before resuming his thoughts on the way to his office.

Greg Lestrade was an ideal candidate for a social relationship, with the possible exception that he already maintained a certain amount of loyalty to Sherlock.  Still, Greg understood the quirks of Sherlock well enough, so there was certainly potential for him to be as understanding of Mycroft.  He also fit nicely into the small category of people who might understand the weight his job.  After all, the police held lives in their hands daily, though perhaps on a smaller scale than he himself did, and Mycroft had certainly enjoyed Lestrade’s company.  He had long forgotten how stress-relieving socializing could be.

Logically the only point to settle was not whether Mycroft should cultivate the relationship, but the exact nature that such a social relationship might take.  And to answer that, Mycroft needed to decide if last night was a date.

Mycroft found himself facing his door sooner than he expected.  He closed it behind him.  The quiet did little to soothe his whirling thoughts, but at least it prevented anyone from seeing him so distracted.  He sat behind his desk with a slow sigh.

Before he had actually attended the dinner, Mycroft would have sworn that Greg had planned a strictly professional evening.  Now, he couldn’t be sure.  “Professional” events usually didn’t entail so much laughing.  Nor did they last so long after the objective had been accomplished.  No, it seemed socialization was on the table.

That didn’t make it a date however.  Nothing happened to indicate any sort of romantic or sexual intentions.  Therefore it hadn’t been a date.  No matter how badly Mycroft wanted it to be.

And he wanted it to be a date quite badly.  Mycroft grimaced a bit.  Could he really develop a friendship with Greg when he so clearly wanted something else?

Before he could answer that delicate question, the phone on his desk rang.  Mycroft jumped a bit and composed his thoughts before answering.

“Mr. Holmes?  You’re needed urgently.  It’s Ambassador Holloway’s daughter.  She’s missing.”

Mycroft barely uttered a “thank you” before hanging up.  His presence would be required with the ambassador, but his first priority needed to be the investigation.  He opened the door of his office into the small anteroom where Anthea’s desk sat.

“Go directly to Ambassador Holloway.”  He told her.  “Assure him that we are doing everything we can to help his daughter and that I will be there personally as soon as I have ensured that Scotland Yard’s best are on the case.  Comfort him as best you can.  You know what to do.”

Anthea nodded once and vanished into the hallway.  Mycroft pulled out his mobile and texted Sherlock.

**Another kidnapping.  Ambassador’s daughter.  Come to the Yard if interested.  –MH**

A second text gave warning to Lestrade of the impending family reunion to which his office was going to play host.

**Ambassador’s daughter missing.  Sherlock and I on our way. –MH**

 

* * *

 

 By the time Mycroft arrived at New Scotland Yard, Sherlock was already pestering a very harassed looking Greg for information that the man did not possess while John looked on rather bemusedly.  Something in John’s expression niggled at Mycroft’s brain, but he chose to ignore whatever it was for the time being.  Their kidnapper had upped the ante.  Not only was a young woman’s life at risk, but the entire situation screamed “international incident."

“Greg, I assume you know less than I do at this point?”  Mycroft asked by way of greeting.

“Donovan is getting the address.  We can all head out to the crime scene as soon as we’ve got it.”  Greg said.

“I’m afraid I can’t stay long.  I need to see the ambassador – calm nerves as much as possible.  I know Sherlock will forget to update me, however.”  Mycroft shot a glare at his brother.

“I would have kept you up to date.”  John said.  “You clearly have an interest in this, the ambassador’s daughter and all.  Not all of us let brotherly grudges interfere in our work.”  John looked at Sherlock as he finished talking with that same warmly amused regard, and the realization hit Mycroft like a train.

Whatever they had been before, Sherlock and John were certainly more than friends now.  Mycroft’s mind spluttered for a second.  Oh dear- they couldn’t be, could they?  For heaven’s sake – they were shagging!  Did Sherlock even know what sex was?  Oh God – no, he shouldn’t be thinking about this.  Sherlock would know he had deduced it from one glance.  He would have deduced it sooner too if he hadn’t been so distracted.  Did John always have to be so obvious?

Mycroft schooled his features as best he could before replying to John.  “I’m sure Sherlock understands my interest.  He is, after all, the one who suggested I become involved in this case in the first place.  I merely thought he might be… too distracted at the moment to remember.”

Sherlock’s mouth fell open for a fraction of a second.  John seemed oblivious, but Sherlock knew to what Mycroft was referring.  “What could possibly distract me?  I have everything I want.  You, on the other hand, dear brother, could be distracted by the right piece of cake if it walked by at an inopportune moment.”  Sherlock inclined his head in Lestrade’s direction on the word “cake.”

Mycroft felt his face flush and prayed Greg and John would not notice.  Nothing could stop Sherlock from seeing, but he had already deduced Mycroft’s feelings anyway.  Well, Sherlock had at least deduced that he was attracted to Greg.  His intimation that Mycroft might be jealous was wholly misplaced.  Nor was he distracted by his feelings.  Such pettiness as jealously was beneath him, and Mycroft maintained enough self-control to decide where to divert his attention.

“Well, since I am so easily distracted, I shall leave the detecting to the professionals.  I’ll be at the embassy, if you need to find me.”  Mycroft said.

Both Greg and John looked momentarily confused, as if they were not entirely sure what had passed between the brothers, but certain that _something_ had.  Thankfully, both of them seemed to simply let it go as Mycroft turned to leave.  He had reached the threshold when Greg’s tired voice overtook him.

“See you later, Mycroft.”

Unable to help himself, Mycroft looked over his shoulder and smiled in goodbye.


	11. Ransom

John slammed the taxi door behind him and followed Sherlock up the steps of another Victorian-style apartment building.  Melanie Holloway’s apartment was situated at the top of a flight of stairs, much like 221B.  The living room buzzed with activity already as Lestrade, Donovan, and the forensics team set up an investigation.  John watched Sherlock duck under the police tape and step confidently into the room.

“What have you found?”  Sherlock asked Lestrade while turning in place to survey the room.

“Nothing yet,” was Lestrade’s only answer.

“She was definitely taken from here.”  Anderson said.

Sherlock’s gaze broke from scanning the room and refocused suddenly on Anderson.  “What makes you so certain?”

Anderson looked momentarily blindsided.  “What do you mean?  She had to have been taken from here.  All the victims have been kidnapped from their homes.”

“Assumptions.”  Sherlock mumbled derisively.  He slowly spun in a circle examining every part of the room.  He then started to crouch as though to examine something on the floor.  John reached for the police tape blocking the door.  They were likely to be here a while, so he might as well take a look around too.  He was about to duck under it, when Sherlock abruptly aborted his crouching motion and popped back up.  “Oh.”

John froze mid-duck, surprised.  Even by Sherlock’s standards, that epiphany was quick.  He’d barely been in the room 30 seconds.  Sherlock pivoted and strode back toward the door so fast, that John didn’t register he had even moved until he was ducking under John’s still outstretched arm.  John scrambled after him, while Greg shouted futilely.

“Sherlock?  Sherlock, wait!  Where are you going?  Sherlock!  John!  Wait!  What are you-“

Greg continued to grumble in the background, but John hurried to keep up with Sherlock.  He had already whipped around the front doorframe by the time John reached the top of the stairs.

“Sherlock!  Hold up!”

Sherlock paused a few feet down the street and turned back toward John.

“Where are we going?”  John asked.

“Obvious.”  Sherlock immediately resumed walking once John was a few feet behind him.

“Um, no.”

“Think, John!  Anderson assumes our kidnapper is going to follow the pattern, but we already know that he’s willing to break it to throw us off.  He knows that the first place we’ll look is her home.  Therefore, he won’t have taken her from her home.  Besides, there was no coat or purse on the coat rack.  Miss Holloway clearly left of her own free will.”

“Is it possible that the kidnapper knows we found Jacquelyn Lowe’s purse and coat?  I mean, he might have taken them on purpose to throw us off.”  John said.

Sherlock stopped walking suddenly.  His vision unfocused for a brief moment.  “I… hadn’t considered that possibility.”  Sherlock’s gaze fell on John.  He looked unmistakably proud.  “It’s a good point, John.  However,” Sherlock broke back into a quick walk, “it’s irrelevant at the moment.  If Miss Holloway was taken from her home, then Lestrade already has the scene secure.  If she was taken from somewhere else, someone needs to locate it.  That’s what we’re going to do.”

“So, we’re going to her office?”  John asked.

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous.  Her work reported her missing when she didn’t show up this morning; she never made it to work.  That means she most likely vanished somewhere between home and her office.  If she had taken a cab, the opportunities to snatch her would be almost nil.  Therefore we need to check the route she would take via the underground.  The nearest tube station is Knightsbridge.  We’re going there.”

Following Sherlock’s lead, John looked into every dark corner and back passageway they walked past, but Sherlock was moving so quickly, John couldn’t get a good look.  He was looking across the street, trying to see into a dark nook, when he ran into Sherlock’s back and bounced off it.

“Here.  Look.”  Sherlock placed a hand warmly on the small of John’s back and leaned in, pointing down a small alley between two buildings.  John’s eyes followed Sherlock’s arm.  Tactically, it was an ideal location.  It would be easy to snatch someone quickly off the street.  A sharp turn just a few feet ahead limited the sight lines down one side of the street, and an awning overhead obscured the view of CCTV cameras and curious people in windows alike.  During rush hour, a single person was unlikely to be missed in the ebb and flow of traffic.  However, this wasn’t the only such nook on the street.  Sherlock was seeing something that John was not.

“It’s certainly the location I’d pick, but it’s not the only suitable place for an abduction.  How can you be sure this is it?”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side curiously.  “You’d pick here?”  He diverted his eyes from the alley itself and looked around the entrance.  “I suppose it provides good cover, but that’s not how I came to my conclusion.  The cover is likely only to cause difficulties for us, since CCTV won’t be available.  No, look at the trash cans.  They’ve been overturned.  There are scuff marks on the pavement as well.  There was a struggle here.  There’s even a convenient blood smear on the wall.”

Now that Sherlock had pointed it out, it seemed obvious and glaring to John.  Sherlock pulled out his phone, took a few photos, and dashed off a text message.  John looked at him inquiringly.

“Lestrade.  The police need to process this scene, especially that blood.  It will be essential to a conviction.”

“We’re going to use it to find out who our kidnapper is, right?”  John asked.

Sherlock pushed the send button before stowing his phone back in a coat pocket.  “No.”  He turned down the alley and headed toward the far end.  John spluttered before kicking himself back into action and hurrying after Sherlock.

“I don’t understand.”

Sherlock explained without slowing down.  “Sloane Street is busy.  Even if they had a car waiting, taking a bloodied woman back out onto the street would be noticed.  A car won’t fit down here, but there’s a bigger alleyway just up…”  The narrow passageway opened up onto a small service road, just big enough for deliveries to be made to the local shops.  “Here.”

John looked around the area.  There was no sign of a scuffle here, but there were several CCTV cameras.  John turned to point them out, but Sherlock was already dialing a number on his phone.

“Mycroft, I need a license plate.  It will be on CCTV from this morning.  The delivery alley behind the 180 block of Sloane Street.”

John looked on as Sherlock turned.  He gestured for John to follow and then headed back for the main street with the phone still pressed to his ear.  No sooner had they reached the front of the shops than Sherlock said “got it” and promptly hung up.

“The vehicle in question is registered to a local man by the name of Logan Stroud.  He owns a small warehouse from which he runs a local shipping business.  Most of his cargo is comprised of flowers from local florists.  Mycroft was unable to trace the car very far due to a gap in CCTV coverage.  He’ll continue working on it, but in the meantime, we can investigate Mr. Stroud’s warehouse.”

“You think he took his victims to his own business?”  John asked.

“No.  He’s far too clever for that, but if there are any other leads, that is the place to find them.”

 

* * *

 

 Half an hour later, John once again climbed out of a cab in Sherlock’s wake, this time on the outskirts of South London.  He squinted up at a small, brick warehouse on the opposite side of the street.   As soon as the door was shut, the cab disappeared down the road, and John was immediately aware of the solitude around them and the imminently setting sun.

“Come on, John.”  Sherlock shouted from the warehouse door.

John jogged across the street and turned to keep lookout while Sherlock picked the lock.  Sherlock shouldered his way inside the building and dashed inside without looking.  John bolted inside behind him, but halted when a deep voice ordered “Stop!”

A middle-aged man stepped out of the shadowy corner pointing a gun directly at Sherlock, who was frozen one pace in front and to the left of John.  Muffled noises from the far side of the room drew John’s attention to a young woman bound and gagged.  Melanie Holloway.  She was sitting under a bright light and in front of a video camera.  This wasn’t just a hostage situation; this was a set-up for a ransom video.  Exactly what Sherlock had been expecting.

“Mr. Stroud, I presume?”  Sherlock’s baritone cut through the silence.

“Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.  You’re getting quicker.”  Stroud replied.

“Easy, Stroud.  We have enough evidence to convict you of kidnapping three women already.  Not to mention resisting arrest and possible assault.  No need to add anything else.  No one needs to get hurt tonight.”  Sherlock said.

“Wrong.  I know how you work.  It’s not likely that you’ve told the police what led you here or even where you are.  You may have all the evidence you need, but the police have nothing.  If you were to never leave, how would they ever find me?”

“The dead bodies might be a bit of a giveaway.” John said.

“I can solve that problem later.”

John’s soldier instincts warned him just a second earlier than Sherlock’s observational skills, and he dove for Sherlock, tackling him to the ground.  The bang of a gunshot echoed around the room, and John felt a sharp sting in his right bicep.

John rolled quickly to the left and pushed to his feet.  Sherlock lunged forward, grabbing Stroud around the ankles and bringing him to the floor.  The gun went off again, the shot flying wild in the chaos.  John rushed forward and dove, ripping the weapon out of Stroud’s grasp.  For one second, John was certain the fight was over, then Stroud scraped his nails over John’s wounded arm.  John recoiled, and Stroud kicked, making contact with Sherlock’s arm.  An audible crack resonated throughout the warehouse.

Sherlock’s face contorted in pain.  John trained the gun on Stroud’s head.  “Freeze.”

Stroud looked ready to continue the struggle, but sirens announcing the arrival of the police seemed to change his mind.  A moment later, Lestrade burst through the door, and two officers moved forward to make the arrest, while Donovan rushed to the back to untie Melanie Holloway.

Lestrade turned to John and Sherlock.  “Jesus.  You two can’t just go tearing off after criminals!”  He looked between the pair, spotting the bullet graze on John’s arm and the way Sherlock was tenderly holding his wrist.  The anger vanished from his face, replaced with sympathetic exasperation.  “You both need a hospital.  Your statements can wait till the morning.”

“How did you even know where we were?”  John asked while Lestrade ushered them to a waiting ambulance.

“Mycroft.”  Sherlock interrupted.  John looked inquiringly over at him.

“He’s the only person who had the address, and he and Lestrade are on a first-name basis these days.”  Lestrade blushed, but Sherlock pushed on as if he hadn’t noticed.  “Do we really need to take an ambulance?  We aren’t hurt that badly.”

“John’s been shot, Sherlock.”  Greg pointed out.

“It’s just a graze.”  John argued.

Greg rolled his eyes.  “Just get in the ambulance.  I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and squeezed gently before leading the way through the ambulance doors.  His message was clear.  The Work was done for now.  The sooner they got patched up, the sooner they could go home.


	12. Dithering

The press would have the people of London believe that the police played absolutely no role whatsoever in apprehending criminals.  After all, with Sherlock Holmes on the case, there was really nothing for the Yard to do… 

Unless you count saving Sherlock.  Or cleaning up after him.

Greg sat in the waiting room of the A&E for the second time that week and the fifth time that month.  _Normal_ people would have learned to call the police first after ending up in the hospital just once, but Sherlock and John seemed to have a death wish.For the number of times those two got injured, they were lucky to be alive. 

Greg sighed and looked at the clock.  At least the injuries were relatively minor this time.  Greg’s team had arrived just in time.  He didn’t even want to think about how much worse the situation could have been if Mycroft hadn’t called.

Mycroft.  Now there was an interesting situation.  Greg had promised himself that he would ask Mycroft out, but the prospect seemed much more intimidating in the light of day.  Mycroft was brilliant.  Maybe even more so than Sherlock.  And he didn’t exactly socialize normally.  Why would he want to date Greg?

Still, dinner with Mycroft was incredible, which really only made Greg more nervous about asking him out.

This was ridiculous.  Adolescent drama was decades in Greg’s past.  He was married and divorced, for God’s sake!  He could ask Mycroft out on a simple date.  No problem.

“Detective Inspector?”  A nurse interrupted Greg’s thoughts.  “You’re waiting for Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, correct?  They’re getting patched up now.  They’ll be done momentarily.”

“Thank you.”  Greg said.  He stood and ran his hands through his hair.  If John and Sherlock were going to be okay, then maybe he should head home.  Sleep had been at a premium for days.  He desperately needed food and rest, and John and Sherlock weren’t likely to notice his absence anyway; they were far too absorbed in each other these days.

Still, he didn’t want to abandon them.

He was dithering when the automatic doors slid open and admitted Mycroft with all the dramatic flair of a super villain.  Adrenaline immediately flooded Greg’s stomach making his limbs tingle.  Oh God.  This had potential to become very embarrassing.

“Greg,” Mycroft smiled in greeting, “good work.  Miss Holloway is back home unharmed, the ambassador is appeased, and the perpetrator is in custody.  You must be pleased.  How is my brother?”

“Yeah, erm, he has a broken arm, but other than that, he’s alright.”

“And how is Dr. Watson?”  Mycroft asked.

“John?  Oh, he’ll be fine too, just a couple stitches.”

“Good.  He’s quite important to Sherlock. Between you and me, I’d hate to see him come to harm.”

“They should be out in just a few minutes.”  Greg said.

“That’s wonderful.  I did not come here to talk to my brother, however.  Perhaps you would join me outside for a cigarette?”

Mycroft turned and strode back out the automatic doors.  Greg followed anxiously.  In the cool night air, Mycroft handed him a cigarette and offered up a light.  Greg took a drag before turning to Mycroft.

“You know, I quit smoking.”  Said Greg.

“Evidence would suggest otherwise.”  Mycroft replied.

A smile spread slowly across Greg’s face.  Then Mycroft started laughing.  Hysterical laughter, brought on by lack of sleep and the absurdity of the situation, bubbled up inside Greg, and within seconds both men were doubled over. 

After finally composing himself, Greg looked to Mycroft.  “So what did you want to talk about?”

“I… would like to propose… an arrangement of sorts.  After dinner last night, I have come to the conclusion that I find your company gratifying.  If you are amenable, I propose a social transaction.  Perhaps weekly depending on our mutual availabilities.”

Silence greeted Mycroft’s pronouncement until Greg could reorganize his thoughts.

“I’m sorry.  I really don’t understand your proposition.”

“Uh, well, in colloquial terms, I suppose I am suggesting that we, er, ‘hang out.’”  Mycroft said.

“You want to ‘hang out’?  With me?  Like a date?”  Greg smiled, flattered.  Could it really be this easy? 

“No.  Of course not!”

Greg’s heart sank.  “Oh.  Well… that works too, I guess.”

Mycroft looked down at his shoes, rather uncharacteristically bashful.  “Not that you aren’t desirable, please understand.  I realize you’re not interested in dating me, and I have no desire to make you uncomfortable or awkward in any way.”

Understanding suddenly blossomed in Greg’s mind.  Mycroft was nervous!  Actually nervous!  About the prospect of dating Greg!  Greg tried not to grin as he took a step closer to Mycroft.

“Believe it or not, it’s not that easy to make me uncomfortable.  Come here.”

Greg leaned in and pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s lips.  Mycroft stiffened in surprise, but relaxed into the kiss almost immediately.

Just as the kiss was heating up, the sound of sliding doors and a baritone voice interrupted them.

“Oh God.  Do control yourself, Mycroft.”  Sherlock said while wrapping his scarf around his neck.

John walked out of the hospital, grinning, and laced his fingers into Sherlock’s.  “Don’t listen to him.  Good for you guys.”

John and Sherlock disappeared into a cab, and Greg turned back to Mycroft, who was trying admirably to pretend he wasn’t blushing.  “So what do you say?  Dinner?”

Mycroft smiled and took his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you all enjoyed reading as much as I have writing! I welcome any feedback or criticism happily, and I look forward to writing more soon. :)


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